Imagine if you will the snug bar of a country pub. A bored but dutiful landlord and a solitary customer. A customer with a problem ....

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"The gift doesn't matter. It's the thought behind it."

It is the acknowledged duty of a publican to offer solace and advice, however unwanted, to their customers. Mr. Jenkins was a strict observer of this behavioural code.

Especially when, as was the case this November evening, there was only the one customer and time hung heavy on his hands. And he could hardly read his newspaper. That was the ultimate sin in his profession.

"Bollocks," replied the customer and took a contemplative swig of his beer.

It was quiet in the snug. A log fire glowed a welcome in the hearth, the occasional crackle of burning wood competing with the insistent pattering of rain lashing against the solitary sash window.

Mr. Jenkins took the rebuff in his stride, such also being his duty.

"So they say," he added belatedly in an attempt to disassociate himself from what was obviously an unwelcome opinion.

The customer felt it incumbent upon himself to expand on his denial on the generally accepted truth.

"If the gift doesn't matter people would just give the first bit of cheap crap that fell to hand. Stands to reason. Instead of spending bloody hours looking for something that looks more expensive than it is."

"That's what I meant," protested the landlord. "It's the thought behind it. People look at the present and are impressed that some normally mean git has spent a lot of time and skill in choosing it."

The astuteness of this reasoning was met by a morose grunt which to Mr. Jenkins' acute ear indicated that the conversation was proceeding down a blind alley. The customer drained his tankard and shoved it back across the bar with another grunt which doubled as a request for a refill.

The customer watched the double gush of the beer swirling into the glass and waited for the extra squirt to dispel the froth, before returning to the nub of the matter.

"My wife used to do all the presents, his included," he explained. "Now it's different of course."

"Useful things wives when it comes to buying presents," opined Mr. Jenkins encouragingly.

The man nodded, took a first sip of his new pint. "She was the one that kept in touch with him too after .... Well I was a bit put out about it. It didn't seem right. Still doesn't come to that. But she .... well you know what women are like."

From the other side of the bar came a nod of sage agreement.

"Every birthday, every Christmas, she was always buying presents. Cost me a bloody fortune it did. Relatives I'd never heard of, friends I'd never met, were all buried under a mountain of bloody gifts at every bleedin' opportunity."

At the thought of such profligacy the man took a long consoling draught from his tankard. "And what did I get? Socks or a shirt. Something that I would have had to buy anyway."

"I got a set of three boxer shorts from 'er indoors a couple of Christmases back. Jesus Christ. There's excitement for you!" Moved by strong feelings of a grievance shared, the landlord drew himself a half pint.

The customer shook his head in sad remembrance. "Mind you, to give him his due, he always sent me something worthwhile. Even when we'd had that row. When I wasn't talking to him. Even during those years .... he always sent something. Something that I was glad to have .... He always seemed to know what would please."

"That's why I should send something now. Something that would also show him that .... I regret .... that I am sorry .... that perhaps I was wrong .... that I wish so many things unsaid .... that it is time .... "

He looked down into his glass as if seeking enlightenment there. Sipped from it.

"But it needs to be right. And I don't know what. Still don't know."

The landlord seemed somewhat thrown by the change in tone. "Why can't your wife sort it as per usual? I mean wives like shopping and buying things and suchlike and ...."

"She's dead. Car accident. Jenny's dead." Bleakness in his voice.

"I'm sorry mate. I didn't know. I ...."

"No need. You didn't know. How could you? But you see that's why. That's why I need to .... to put things right. That is what she would have wanted."

The man paused. His knuckles white where his hand clasped the glass.

"That is what she always wanted. Wanted most of all. And now .... And now...." This last almost a whisper, his voice trailing of to the final syllable.

The silence lay between them. The landlord uneasy, half fearful of committing another gaffe, half fearful of the silence and wanting to fill the conversational gap. Years of playing mine host had conditioned him to fill such gaps with words. But what words now? He hesitated.

The man stared ahead into a blank nothingness, lost in thought, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

The landlord thought of returning to his newspaper but ....

"I did try. I knew I should. Indeed I wanted to .... I knew Jenny was right, but I found it difficult to accept. Difficult even to believe at first. That Alex ...." Speaking to himself rather than to the landlord. Yet including him as if requiring him to eavesdrop, to share the knowledge.

"Alex is your son?" The landlord's question was rhetorical only, just to respond, to accept the inclusion, but ....

"Alex .... Alexander was my son. Now Alex is a daughter .... Alexandra."

A pause. Then a repetition....

"Alexandra." The name a stranger in his mouth. A name to be tasted, savoured. A name that gave out a strange unaccustomed sound as if spoken, heard, for the very first time. As indeed, for him, it was.

A short bark of a sound deep in the throat. A shake of the head.

"What gift should I buy for a daughter who was once my son?"

The landlord was confused, only half understanding, although it was clear enough. Still not knowing if he had heard aright, not daring to assume he had. No words to offer as he grappled with the implications of what had been said.

"Perfume? Lingerie? Earrings? For my son? For Alex?"

There were tears glistening in the man's eyes.

"Jenny would have known. Alexandra was her daughter just as Alexander had been her son. Her love encompassed both. Saw no difference. Counted herself blessed to have had both a son and a daughter. Had love and enough to spare. But I ...."

Both hands wrapped round his glass now. Looking down at it. Not seeing it.

"I loved too. But perhaps my love was not enough. Perhaps I saw only my own hopes destroyed; sought for reasons and found only my own failures."

The landlord finally found words. Inadequate words for he himself was shocked, trying to come to terms with what his own reactions might have been. But at heart he was a kindly man and words were all he had to offer.

"I am so sorry mate. So sorry. I hadn't realised. You mustn't blame yourself so .... any father would .... I mean It must have been difficult .... and there's still time surely ....?"

But the man too intent on pursuing his own truth to heed the solace of others.

"Too late I know .... too late I know that it was selfishness. Selfishness not love that moved me. My own pride hurt. My own hopes dashed. My own concerns about how my friends, how the world, would see me. See it as my fault. Judge me for it."

The man raised his head and smiled at the landlord. A sad wistful smile.

"Because I lacked the humility to understand that I did not matter, I lost the ability to love. I lost these last twelve years. Wasted, dead, years. Because I had not charity I lost a daughter as well as a son and, God forgive me, I must have caused my beloved Jenny unendurable pain."

A log collapsed in the fire with a sudden burst of sparks. The flames flickered and flared up again.

"And I did not know how to buy Alex a present."

The landlord saw that the man's face had a a sudden pallor that the firelight's glow could not disguise. A sheen of sweat upon his brow. As if his self revelation had aged him far beyond his years.

"There's still time sir. Still time. And it is the thought that matters. I am sure that something like a ...."

But the man, seemingly burdened with a great weariness, had risen from the barstool, pushing his unfinished drink away from him, and was already half way to the door.

"Alas no," he said. "If only .... but I fear too late ....twelve years too late ...."

The door swung close behind him as his "Good night to you landlord," filtered back into the now empty snug.

Behind the bar, the landlord gazed after him, lost in his own thoughts. Trying to put himself in the man's shoes. "Poor bastard," he muttered, "Seemed a pleasant enough sort of cove. Ah well ...."

He picked up his newspaper, idly scanning it although his thoughts were still elsewhere. Turned the pages. One, two, three .... until on the fourth page a photograph caught his eyes. A black and white photograph, blurry as one would expect from a local rag and probably taken years before, depicting a man and woman in their forties smiling at the camera. Above was the headline, 'Tragic Accident on A515'.

Just for a moment the man in the photograph looked familiar. Surely there was a resemblance. Someone he knew or had seen recently .... a younger version of the customer who had just left the snug? But it must be his imagination. It could be anyone really. Just an old blurred photograph printed on an old worn out press.

His eyes dropped to the story beneath, carrying yesterday's date.

Police were called to a tragic accident this morning involving a local couple who were reportedly en route for Manchester on a pre-Christmas shopping expedition. Mrs. Jenny Venables was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital and we understand that her husband's condition is extremely grave and that he is not expected to survive the day.

That settled it. It couldn't be the same guy after all. Funny about the coincidence about the name though. Jenny was ....

There was the sound of voices and the outer door banged open. Some of his regulars had braved the storm after all. He started to pull pints in knowing anticipation of their favourite tipple. The local rag tossed into the waste bin.

The rest of the story -

The couple's daughter, Miss Alexandra Venables, is at his bedside. The cause of the crash is unknown but the police report that no other car was involved.

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